


City Enigmas

by ghoulhunt



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boston, Crime, Crime Fighting, Mystery, near will show up eventually, tags to be added in the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoulhunt/pseuds/ghoulhunt
Summary: a few years have passed since the kira case ended, and through that time, a lot of change has taken place for mello. called in to work on a strange case in boston, he delves into the city to find things he didn't know, and finds people-or rather, a single person-he hasn't seen in quite some time. partnered together, mello and matt begin to chase an elusive killer, who may have plans for them in the works.-a reboot of a fic i started well over a year ago.





	City Enigmas

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends! i haven't posted in a while, and i also haven't updated the original version of this fic in quite some time. mostly because it's been slowly developing. i decided to start from scratch and came up with many new things that i think work better, and are definitely more thought out than my original draft. i hope you enjoy what there is of it!

_Boston, Massachusetts._

_Time: unknown._

The flickering light of the television illuminates the room. The walls are white, with long, casted shadows of the couch displayed against it. The coffee table lies in the center, littered with empty plastic bottles and a half of a pizza left in a box, hard and cold, while a laptop remains open. A trail of cords follows, down the leg of the table and into a messy clump beside the couch. A genius nest, one may refer to the mess as.

“I can get you what you need. Just give me a day or two.”

The conversation stops as quickly as it starts. The phone line drops. The cursor flashes on his computer, his notes ending abruptly; no punctuation, only lines between what information he’s collected in the brief call. Business is business, and this is the closest he’s come to a routine. He has what he needs, and he has the people. He has the knowledge to give people what they want, when they want it.

Good pay. Bad morals.

He puts the phone down. He stretches on the couch, long, for more than a few seconds. His legs ache from being cramped in an awkward position, eyes burn with fatigue, throat scratching with dehydration. He’s been awake for a surplus amount of time, hell, he doesn’t even know what the day is. Time has blurred for him, his schedule inconsistent. Everything just sort of happens now.

He looks down at the phone. An old Motorola Razor, cheap, on a prepaid plan. Encrypted for safety. Call history deleted. Messages cleared. It’s not enough, he thinks.

(He knows. He’s always been a bit paranoid. He’ll have to get rid of it as soon as he can.)

-

A wad of cash is slid easily into one of the pockets on the inside of his coat. The autumn weather brings a chill to the air, enough that one must layer themselves to keep warm. They speak in low voices, gruff and raspy; close enough that he can smell the marijuana drifting off the other.

“Everythin’s accounted for?” The man whispers. He nods. 

“Everything you asked for.” He slips a matchbox into the man’s palm with his gloved fingers, giving him vital information-a rivals’ numbers, accounts, passwords. Secrets, connections, affiliations thought to have been deleted.  All contained within, on the paper that took him a while to fit into the tiny little thing.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you,” the man says; the street lamps allow him to see part of a smug smile resting on his face.

“Burn the box and its contents when you’re done with it. You won’t be able to contact me after this.” He says coldly.

“Don’t think I’ll need tuh, I’ve got all I need. Thanks.”

They depart separately, without a final word.

-

(Hundreds, twenties, tens, fives and ones. An easy three thousand made.)

-

He ditches the phones in a stranger’s trashcan, halfway across the city. Broken in half, smashed to pieces, contents held there previously now deleted.

Covering up his tracks is something he’s used to. It’s become a way to relieve himself of his ever-present anxiety of being caught out here. Even if the work he puts into erasing his tracks is tedious, it has become routine. It’s the only source of permanence he has, in every sense of the word.

The trains are closed. His apartment is in the opposite direction. He lights a cigarette, walking aimlessly down the quiet city street.

-

Smoke from his cigarette finds itself back into the room, despite leaning out the window and letting it drift out over the street. From his fifth story view, he can see the faded bricks of the homes around him, lit by tall street lamps. If he looks straight across, he can see the second tallest building there glowing brightly, hinting at a more modern life towards the center of the city. The lights tonight are a deep blue, corresponding to the dome-shaped structure next to it.

He supposes, if he truly wanted to, he could walk there tonight and enjoy whatever might be going on over there. Time is ticking though, ticking, ticking, ticking, and sooner than later he’s going to have to move. Again.

This is all temporary. It always has been.

He has to remind himself of this often, especially in situations such as this-where he’s been dealing with a particular client for a long while, long enough to get caught up in things he knows he shouldn’t. People, he’s come to find out, are ruthless. They’ll do anything to get what they want, and hurt anyone who tries to get in their way. Enemies are made quite easily, and in the next few days he’s bound to make a few more. This, of course, means he’s going to have to relocate to another part of the city, and remove any tracks he may have left. It’s a pity he must leave this apartment-this one was the most pleasant of them all.

He takes a drag from his cigarette. He wishes he could be more sensitive sometimes. It’s scary to fall into that trap, though, a risk he’s not willing to take. He’s needed to detach himself from a lot in the past year-relationships, emotions; a lot of things he thought he knew about the world. Once more he’s found himself alone, the clawing feeling of it now numb to him. He’s forced that aching wedged between his ribs to become nothing, substituting the emptiness it so desired with more polluted puffs of air than he could administer.

Ash is floating down, falling like debris.

The glow of the end is nothing compared to what he can see.


End file.
